Journey Home
by Satu-D-2
Summary: Waking up is a surprise, and a wholly unpleasant one. Confused and in pain and alone, Héctor wants only one thing in the whole world. To be home with his family.


December 7th: Somehow, in some way, Héctor survives the poisoning...and it makes him realise that where he really wants to be is home with his fam. EVERYONE LIVES AU.

Thank you to DeejayMil for this AMAZING prompt! It was a joy to write and there is a long-fic brewing around this premise (I just have to finish my other WIPs first!)

I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

Waking up was a surprise, and a deeply unpleasant one.

Héctor's stomach hurt. Really, _really_ hurt. Not just the vague crampy pain of a bad meal, or the dull ache of a pulled muscle. This was a stabbing, queasy feeling, like needles dipped in poison. He groaned and curled into a ball, pressing his palms firmly on his stomach. The cheek laying on the ground was cold, damp, and he realised his nose was full of the sharp, sour smell of acid. The realisation made bile rise in his throat. Retching, squeezing his eyes shut, he vomited. Again, by the smell of it. He must have been vomiting all night.

 _How?_ he thought blearily. The word floated out of the woolly fog that filled his mind, surfacing like a fish from deep water. _I only had one drink._ When he opened his eyes, the left seemed glued together, not stinging but tacked shut all the same.

It took a long time—and a lot of effort—but he finally managed to push himself up into a slumped sitting position. He scrubbed his cheek with the sleeve of his charro suit, wincing as cheap fabric immediately became saturated with vomit and flakes of dried blood.

"Ernesto." His voice was a weary little croak. Grating out of a throat that was swollen and tender. A quick glance around confirmed what he already knew: Ernesto de la Cruz, his best friend, was nowhere in sight. More than that, he realised with another unpleasant flash of clarity, his suitcase was gone. So was his guitar. The guitar detailed with ornate curling patterns and inlaid with pearl. The guitar Imelda had given him.

An insane conclusion filled his head. A starburst of horridly vivid light, sweeping away the fogginess completely.

Ernesto had tried to kill him. Ernesto had poisoned him. Ernesto had stolen his guitar, his bag. His _songs_.

"You rat," he said, but there was no anger in his voice. There was a numb sort of disbelief instead, leading his tone to be casual, almost conversational. He slowly rose to his feet. Hands pressed firmly to the pit of his stomach. Allowing the retches that twitched in his throat. Recognising fighting against the sensation would be pointless and painful.

The sky was still dark, but there was a soft rosy gleam to the horizon that said dawn was rapidly approaching. He had been lying in his own vomit most of the night, then, sprawled motionless on the cobbles with bile dribbling from his lips. What a pleasant image.

"You rat," he said again, now a little more viciously. "You didn't even move me."

The train station was at the end of the street. There was a train there waiting, the murmur of early morning commuters and workers was just audible at this distance. He wondered, for the briefest moment, how many people had walked right past him, had seen and dismissed him as just another drunk on the streets of Mexico City. The thought sent a cold chill up his spine and he On trembling legs, he staggered towards the station, his mind whirling with the implications of what had happened.

Ernesto couldn't have really tried to kill him, could he? The thought was baffling, impossible. They had been friends for years. Since they were children. Surely Ernesto would have found another way. Of course, they had argued the previous night, as they had every night that week—fortnight? month?—each fight becoming a little more heated. Last night had been the worst, by far, but even then it hadn't been vicious. It hadn't been unfair, the way some of their fights in their teens—almost always over a girl, he realised looking back—had been. There had been no name-calling, no underhanded comments, none of the slightly too firm punches to the shoulder or slaps on the back Ernesto had used to really underline his point. Héctor had said he was leaving. Ernesto had wished him well.

Ernesto had toasted to their parting.

And there had been rat-poison beneath the bathroom sink.

"Stupid," he said. "Stop being stupid."

As he approached the train station, his mind snapped back to the missing suitcase. Where he kept his notebook and clothes and money. Most of it anyway. Fumbling hands patted the front of his jacket, and he sighed with relief at the crinkle of paper and clink of coins. His handful of change. His travel documents. Hopefully it would be enough to get home. He had to get home.

There was a severe looking woman sitting at the ticket desk, sharp eyes watching the loading of the train. No stowaways were going to creep beneath her vigilant gaze. Héctor did his best to offer a winning smile as he approached, drawing out his photograph and the handful of pesos.

"One to Santa Cecilia, please," he said. The coins fell from his hands and rattled on the desk. The woman swung her gaze to him, her nostrils flaring.

"The train to Santa Cecelia will not arrive for another hour," she said coolly. "And not leave for another half hour after that."

"That's fine. I'm happy to wait." He stretched his grin another centimetre, trying not to wince as the gunk on his left cheek crinkled. "Is there perhaps a lavabo I could use in the meantime?"

A brief narrowing of her eyes, another flare of her nostrils—sniffing for booze, he thought—then a nod. "Through the station. Ticket-holders only," she said, even as she started counting the pesos that scattered the desk and pulled out the almost empty ticket book. Happy to oblige, Héctor waited patiently until she had finished scribbling a ticket, tore it out of the book and handed it over. She had not, he noticed, even glanced at the picture of his bright smiling face, a picture that felt as though it had been taken years ago instead of only six months.

There was a water pump out the back of the station, sitting in a dusty little square by the tracks with a metal basin beneath the spout. There was already a shallow puddle of clear water in the basin, and this is where Héctor turned first. It was cool and soothing on his face, and he scrubbed the crusted gunk off his left cheek. The pump was well oiled and primed, taking only a light push on the lever for fresh water to spill into the bowl. There was an exquisitely tender spot near his left temple, and searching fingertips felt out a ragged slice stretched thin over a large bump just below his hairline. He must have hit his head on a cobble when he fell. No wonder the ticket woman had been sniffing for alcohol. He must have looked an inch from death

After washing his face and hair again and again, he gently touched his fingertips to his temple. It was a bit tacky, but there was no blood there when he drew his hand back. Relieved, he splashed the last cupped palmful of water over his hair, ignoring the cool trickles down his back. His shirt, when he pulled it back on, stuck to his skin.

Héctor sat down against the wall, folding his arms tight around his stomach. The pain was slowly fading, but if he shifted in the wrong way those poison needles jabbed again. Thankfully the nausea had settled and he didn't feel that he was going to vomit again. That was a small relief.

The previous train pulled away, and for a while there was the sweet smell of tobacco and the murmuring conversation of the rail workers. A breeze blew past, cooling his forehead and attempting to dry the dampness of his shirt. In the time before his train arrived, he tried very hard to not think of Ernesto. Instead, he thought of Coco. His baby girl, with her bright curious eyes and a smile that lit up the room. He had to get home to see her. Whatever had been in that tequila the night before, it clearly wasn't going to kill him. Probably. Maybe. If it was, he would be dead by now, surely. Probably. Maybe. Regardless, he had to see his girl.

When the train finally arrived, he was onboard as soon as it stopped. No one was in the cabin with him, and he stretched his legs over the seat beside him with a grateful sigh. It helped, having his legs up, it took some of the pressure off his gut. Propped up like this, he easily slipped into a doze, his ticket clutched in one hand. The ticket inspector nudged him awake for a moment to make a note of his , but the gentle rocking of the train sent him right back to sleep. He had strange dark dreams: dancing skeletons who became jittering horrors with glowing golden light shivering through their bones. One lunged at him with a clattering laugh, and he jolted awake just in time to see the familiar Santa Cecilia station slowly come to a stop beside his window.

His stomach hurt less now. He could move a little easier. As he stood and hobbled out of the train, however, his legs were stiff and cramped, his muscles like ropes under his skin. The Rivera hacienda was not far from the station, so it wasn't like he had far to go. He just wished he didn't have to stagger the whole way there.

"Papa!"

Ah, a hallucination. He was sicker than he thought. Maybe he _was_ dying.

But then she was there, running towards him in a pair of sturdy new boots, her arms outstretched and her smile beaming like the sun. Her voice was raised in an excited shout, and the sound completed a chord with his heartbeat. "Papa's home!"

She leapt. Despite the pain, there was no hesitation. He bent and swept her up, a smooth movement that settled her on his hip. Already showering kisses over her chubby cheeks and tiny upturned nose. "Coco, mi vida!"

"Héctor?" And then Imelda was there too, a tight roll of leather tucked beneath one arm and a confused frown on her face. "What are you doing back? I thought you and Ernesto-" Her eyes widened as she looked him up at down. "Are you…?"

The stabbing pain had recurred. Coco slipped in his grip, but he didn't let her fall. His knees gave out instead, and he crumpled to the ground, lips tightly sealed against the bile that was threatening to rise in his throat. Coco let out a confused little gasp and Imelda rushed to his side.

"Dios mío, we have to get you home. Óscar! Felipe!" The twins were at her side in a moment, eyes wide and shocked behind thick glasses. Héctor had time to smile weakly at them before black wings unfolded before his eyes and he slipped into darkness.

* * *

Waking up was a pleasant surprise. He lay with his eyes closed for a long moment, listening to the bustling sounds of the house around him, the laughter and soft murmurs.

"I know you're awake." Imelda's hand slipped into his, the calloused tips of her fingers tracing the lines of his palm. "Feeling any better?" He was, actually. There was no pain in his stomach, and the tight locked muscles in his limbs were now soft and relaxed. The absence of pain was such a sweet relief he felt tears spring into his eyes. "The doctor's in the kitchen having tea with Felipe if you need him to come back."

"I'm okay, mi amor." Héctor squeezed her hand.

"Where is Ernesto? Why wasn't he with you?" He could hear the frown in her voice now. Imelda and Ernesto had never gotten along. Now he wondered if she hadn't been onto something from the get go.

"I don't know." The words 'He poisoned me' swelled behind his lips, but he bit them back. This was not the time. If the doctor could confirm one way or another, then that would be the time to address it. "It doesn't matter. I had to come home."

She lifted his hand and brushed a kiss against his knuckles. The curve of her smile was probably almost invisible, but he could feel it on his skin and it made his heart skip a beat. "We're glad you've come home," she said, her voice soft and warm. There was a pause, then she added in an embarrassed whisper, "I wasn't sure you would…"

Again, his suspicion tried to escape his mouth. He swallowed it back and smiled a little uneasily. "Nothing could keep me away."

"Papa's awake!" Coco burst into the room, Felipe (or was it Óscar) chasing her. She jumped onto the bed, bounding up and throwing her arms tight around Héctor's neck.

His free arm hooked around her, holding her tight against him, and squeezed Imelda's hand tight. For the first time in months, since he had left on tour, his heart was whole again. He would not give it up again.


End file.
